He’s frustrated, but when we go down to Hudson’s spread of salads, cold meats, and a lemon meringue pie for dessert, Finch is slightly mollified. He eats in big forkfuls, saying nothing, finishing before everyone else. But he stays there at the table, brooding and fidgeting, obviously thinking.
Carlucci and Hudson have exchanged more than one glance, but are keeping quiet after one ill-advised attempt from Hudson to ask how things went today got his head bitten off by Finch’s response.
“Don’t worry about it; we’ll clear up,” I say afterward, when Hudson jumps up to start taking plates off the table.
Finch just about murders me with his death-glare, but as soon as Carlucci and Hudson have scurried out of the room, I lean over and take his hand. “We’ll call Tara, then we can clear the kitchen while we think about anything she’s able to tell us.”
His glare softens. Back at the townhouse, we had a routine, Finch and I, and part of it was cleaning up after dinner together. I’ve always enjoyed those moments, because they’re among the most grounded in my day.
“Okay,” he says, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. But he hesitates. “Hang on. Let me go apologize to Hudson for being an asshole, first.”
* * *
Tara is initially concernedto hear from us, then sympathetic that we went to Tino’s place—she has solid emotional intelligence, that woman, picking up on the nuances right away—and then, as Finch impatiently explains the note from their mother, thoughtful.
“Does it have a date on it?” she asks.
“No, it doesn’t,” Finch just about snaps, and then stops dead, staring at his sister’s face on the video call. “Shit, wait. The envelope—”
He runs upstairs, leaving me alone with Tara. Her face is serious. “I’m not sure it was a great idea to take Howie to that place,” she says, and the big-sister disapproval vibes are strong.
“He wanted to come.”
“It’s not good for him to be dwelling on these things,” she says delicately. “Howie has always had a rather unhealthy fascination with…well…”
“Death,” I supply. “Believe me, I know it.” I look up as the noise of Finch thundering back down the stairs sounds in the hallway. “Don’t worry, Tara. I’m taking good care of your little brother. I promise.” Slightly louder, looking away from the phone, I ask, “Is there a date on the postmark?”
Finch just about skids to a halt at the kitchen counter, where I’ve propped the tablet up. “Yes,” he says, voice heavy with meaning. “And it’s the fucking day before Mom…died.”
“Well,” Tara says, “that’s one extra piece of information. As for the number at the bottom, I’m just not sure.” The camera cartwheels and then rights itself as she begins walking through Hillview. “Hang on,” she says, looking away from the camera. “The chef’s just come in.”
We wait a few seconds, listening to muffled voices before her attention comes back to us. “Sorry. She just wanted to check on the menu for next week. Anyway. When Mom writes about the power of prayer—”
“It’s definitely code, right?” Finch breaks in. “Mom wasn’tsuper-religious. Not like Róisín.”
“No,” Tara concedes, “but she did go to Mass every Sunday like clockwork.”
“You think she’s referring to a church? A cathedral? It’d have to be in New York, though, if she sent it to Tino—she couldn’t expect him to go to Boston.”
“No,” Tara says again, a little less patiently, “I don’t think it’s a place. I think she must be referring to her rosary.”
Finch claps his hands loudly, startling me. “Ofcourse!” he hisses. “She took that damn thing with her everywhere. I don’t even know why, she only ever used it on Sunday.”
“Yes,” Tara says with meaning. “Shedidtake it everywhere with her. So it makes sense that—ugh, hangon,” she breaks off in an almost-annoyed mutter, and turns aside again to acknowledge and thank her security detail. They’ve finished their final patrol, and I can hear O’Hara saying everything is fine, that they’ve swept again for bugs, and that he and Rory are heading out for dinner, but leaving Murph in charge while they’re away. Murph’s genial brogue follows, assuring Tara that everything will be fine while O’Hara is out.
I’m glad to hear O’Hara so on top of things. If something happened to Tara, I’m not sure Finch would be able to take another blow, not after he’s finally mended their relationship.
Finch, meanwhile, is grabbing my arm and bouncing on his toes. I’m not sure I like seeing him so excited, not over one mysterious note that could, in the end, mean nothing. Whatever his mother refers to could already have been destroyed—used—taken already—
“Calm down,” I murmur, patting his hand where he’s squeezing at my wrist rather painfully.
“—sorry,” Tara sighs, coming back to our conversation. “So the rosary—”
“Oh,shit,” Finch moans, collapsing on the countertop. “Maggie buried it with Pops, didn’t she? You tried to give it to me, but I wouldn’t take it.Fuck.”
Ah. I remember now, the Irish wake, the dark room where Finch’s namesake, Howard Donovan, lay in repose before his burial. Tara asking Finch to take the rosary as a memento of their mother—Finch’s refusal—
“No,” Tara laughs bitterly. “No, it wasnotburied with him. There was no way I was going to let Pops clutch onto Mom’s favorite rosary for eternity. He had no right to it.”
